


Plastic Bag

by heytheremisterblue



Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Sad Ending, Wakes & Funerals, some other 41st officers are mentioned but not enough to be tagged
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 11:48:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,202
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29965926
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heytheremisterblue/pseuds/heytheremisterblue
Summary: Gulls soar overhead, made stark white against the turbulent gray of the clouds—he’s not sure he’s ever actually seen the sun out while in Martinaise. But it fits. Melancholy suits this town, and it suits this occasion.-Just a little Jean thing I wrote while I was feeling down. I like to think that Harry would be alive and well long after where the game leaves off, but I have the occasional whim to think about what would happen to everyone else if he wasn't.
Relationships: Harry Du Bois & Jean Vicquemare, Harry Du Bois & Kim Kitsuragi
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Plastic Bag

This part of Martinaise was always so beautiful, Jean thinks.

Not because it’s any cleaner than the rest of the city, clearly, or in a better state of repair. There are crumpled cans and pieces of sun-bleached newspaper scattered in the reeds; the ocean water seems to get greener in a sickly way the further onto shore the tide creeps. It is the same old, forgotten corner of Revachol that it has always been and will probably remain for decades.

But the cold air from the sea soothes his dry skin. His uniform-issue boots have sunk firmly into the clay and are hugged by it, which keeps him upright when he isn’t sure how to stay up by himself. Gulls soar overhead, made stark white against the turbulent gray of the clouds—he’s not sure he’s ever actually seen the sun out while in Martinaise. But it fits. Melancholy suits this town, and it suits this occasion.

It _is_ cold today. He’s neglected to wear gloves and the brushed metal urn in his hands is soaking in the temperature and returning it to his reddened fingers. Still, he clutches it, one arm tucked under the base to bring it closer to his body. His eyes slowly close. He takes a deep breath and lets the humidity burn his lungs, tucks away eagerness for a cigarette.

“Whenever you are ready, Jean.”

Lieutenant Kitsuragi’s voice is soft but does not waver as he stands next to him. He does not touch Jean, he does not hover, he does not impose himself; he is simply there, present, and ready to follow a cue. His comment doesn’t come with the implication that he’d like Jean to move faster. When Kim says the words, _whenever you’re ready_ , he means them.

It was a stroke.

Harry didn’t _do_ anything. He didn’t shoot himself in the mouth, he didn’t do so much speed his heart exploded, he didn’t get drunk and wander into traffic. He did nothing that Jean could blame him for, though he tried so hard to. Harry got clean, started eating better, started running in the morning, went on antidepressants—he climbed every single step he could have climbed to make himself better.

And then one evening, he went home from work, and on Monday they found him dead. He had a fucking stroke on his couch and died, alone.

Jean went through the stages and all of the shit that went with them. He did the blaming thing, he did the ‘shouting at the gods’ thing. He did the weeping and the drinking, and then more of the weeping. He put a hole through his wall and wished it was Harry; he wanted to beat the shit out of him for having the gall to die. The truth was, though, it was no one’s fault. There was no one to hold accountable, it was just _fucking shitty._

He opens his eyes again. He doesn’t know how long they were closed, but his sleep-deprived pupils flinch at the brightness of daylight and retreat to the object in his arms. It’s a beautiful thing, adorned meticulously with silver trims and ornate little designs. It was the best thing Jean could realistically afford. Air fogs out of his mouth one last time before he hands the thing over to Kitsuragi and opens the lid. Harry sits in a plastic bag. Jean could almost laugh right now; a plastic bag you’d put fruit or something in, and his partner is in it instead. Instead of laughing or smiling his mouth curls into an expression that feels grotesque, and he bites it back, licking his chapped lips to keep them from quivering. 

In his periphery he sees Harry’s urn passed to another person, probably Judit. Kim steps closer and it dawns on Jean for the first time that the lieutenant has also foregone gloves, most likely for the same reason he did.

He opens the bag slowly to try and avoid the noise it would make, and whatever sound does come from it is shadowed by the waves. Jean stares into the open bag of ashes. 

This is where Harry would have wanted to rest. He doesn’t _know_ , it’s not possible for him to know, yet he… does. As though the city herself… told him. One night, in his motor carriage with no other motivation than to feel the vibration of the engine in his chest, something guided him right here to this beach, and watching the distant lights of the industrial harbor dance over the icy waves, he knew. Martinaise was important to Harry. He lost pieces of himself here, maybe it was right to return him so that he could be whole.

Jean sinks his fingers carefully into the ashes. He sifts, cups some of Harry into his palm. Stroking the dust with his palm, his eyes begin to burn again, not from the sky, and he has to bite down hard on his molars to keep himself from succumbing to tears.

He removes that small scoop from the bag and holds his hand out so that the breeze may spirit it away from his grasp. A gust rolls through and scatters the ashes into the air; Jean watches until the particles disappear.

Kim does this, too. He reaches into the bag, gently retrieves his own handful, and follows suit, letting it fall from his fingers like sand. Just like that, alternating without a word, they let more and more of Harry go until he has gone entirely unto the wind. And that’s it.

Some voice in the back of Jean’s head comments on Trant’s uncharacteristic ability to have remained quiet this entire time, not even offering a single tidbit on architecture or the war during the drive here. He decides to turn back and acknowledge the remaining members of the Major Crimes Unit. Minot pets the smooth lid of the urn with a motherly hand, but stops under Jean’s gaze as if she hadn’t realized she was doing it. Trant seems to stare off at the wavebreakers like he’s mentally calculating exactly where the breeze took the ashes. McClain meets his eyes and his throat bobs; Torson must have slipped away, most likely back to where they parked to seek reprieve. 

Jean feels a hand on his back and looks beside him to find himself under Kitsuragi’s gaze. He doesn’t have to speak for him to feel exactly what he’s asking—he must expect some kind of epitaph. 

He clears his throat. “Harry was a _bastard._ ”

The unit seems to be unanimously uncomfortable with that choice of words. Still, none speak up to disagree.

“That man broke me a hundred times. But…” Jean takes a pause to try and steady his voice. “I would’ve let him do it a thousand more. He was worth it. Just getting to be around him was worth everything. And this… isn’t fair.”

Kim coughs and turns away, folding his hands tightly behind his back. Jean has never seen him cry, but he has no intention of stopping to gawk at it now or he might crack, and he _cannot_ crack now.

“Let’s…” He breathes shakily in and out. “Let’s go home.”


End file.
